happened as soon as the police called. But I didn’t have a chance to start renovating yet. I just signed the papers last week. Now I’ll have to gut the building. You girls are sure you’re okay?”
“Nothing is okay,” Ryan says. “Please, they need help.”
“It’s too dangerous for anyone to go in there, Uncle Ryan,” Gracie says.
“You’re just going to let them die?”
“Shush,” Gracie says. “You have to calm down. This isn’t good for you.”
“Good for me? I don’t cares what’s good for me!” A vein pumps across Ryan’s forehead.
I look at my father. “You saved him?” I don’t really mean it as a question. I know he did. As soon as Gracie and I saw Dad, we both knew it was safe. That everything would be okay. That’s what my father does, he makes things okay. He takes care of people.
Dad puts his hand on my shoulder. We stand in a clump under the apple tree and watch the building burn. Uncle Ryan weeps through open fingers, keeping watch on his birds. They are still perched on the windowsill. We can see flames rise up behind the birds; the fire is inside the apartment now.
The smallest of the three birds hops up and down, and then, in one heartbreaking moment, jumps off the ledge. He spreads his puny wings and drops like a stone.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Uncle Ryan cries.
His eyes are shut now, which is good, because the little bird has started something. The fattest bird now takes a hop toward the edge. He doesn’t even bother to spread his wings, but falls three stories to the ground. The final bird, bright yellow and big-eyed, tumbles after him just as the curtains in Uncle Ryan’s apartment explode in flames.
“Oh my God,” Gracie says.
“I should call your mother,” Dad says, and takes his cell phone out of his pocket.
I look away. I look at the sky, then at my sneakers, then across the lawn toward the street and rows of untouched, perfect-looking homes and, to the far right, the playing fields of Finch Park. In this direction, if you discount the running firemen and newly homeless people, everything looks okay. Untouched. Safe.
“Everyone step off the lawn, please.” A policeman waves his arms at us to move back. “All pedestrians off the grass. Step back, it’s for your own safety. Step back. That’s right. There you go.”
Dad wheels Uncle Ryan toward the street, and Gracie and I follow. Just before I reach the road, I turn back for a last look, and that’s when I see him. Weber is walking away from the burning building, his face and his uniform covered with soot and dirt. He has an axe in his hand. He sees me at the same moment, and he grins. His teeth are a shock of whiteness. I hadn’t thought that Weber could be hurt, but still, I am deeply relieved at the sight of him.
I watch him walk toward me. I watch his face with the same clarity I’d had running across the lawn toward Uncle Ryan and my father. Weber looks so happy. I have seen him happy before, but this is different. Something in him, beyond the dirt, is shining.
When he reaches me he talks fast, like a little boy. “This is our biggest fire in years. It was amazing, Lila. Fucking amazing. We got everyone out. It was awesome in there! We played chess with the fire and we fucking won.” He touches my arm. “Your uncle’s okay, right? I saw your dad take him out.”
“Yes,” I say. Weber is looking toward the fire, which is slowing now. It seems to be under control.
“You love this,” I say. “Don’t you.”
“Fuck yes,” Weber says. “I love it.”
In that moment, with what’s left of Uncle Ryan’s building still smoldering and his three birds dead on the ground and Gracie waiting by the car holding her round stomach, I am again changed, and changing. I am filled up by what I have seen. By the expression on Weber’s face. By his notion of love. There is no room left inside me for anything else; my former decisions are fighting for ground, wanting for traction.
I fight, too. I try to stop myself. I try to be rational. For God’s sake, this is no time to crumble. And why am I crumbling, because of a handsome fireman? How pathetic can I be? After all, I had just figured everything out. I knew what I was doing. I